When Doves Cry
by KawaiiTenshi27
Summary: MWPP era. PreHogwarts Sirius Black. Slight hints of slash, if you're looking for it.


**Disclaimer:** If they actually belonged to me, this wouldn't be _fan_fiction, now would it?

**Warning:** Slashy hints if you look for that sort of thing. SBRL, of course. Get used to it, I'm a faithful shipper.

**When Doves Cry**

The sky is a deep velvety black, picked out with only a few diamond-like stars and a full moon so sharply white it looks cut out. There is a late-autumn chill in the air and the ground of the little park near Grimmauld Place in London is already covered with a light blanket of leaves from the surrounding trees. The swing-set in the center of the park creaks softly as one of the swings glides back and forth, slowing carrying its occupant through the darkness.

The boy sitting on the swing, the lone visitor to the park at this late hour, is roughly ten years old. He has short, neatly trimmed black hair and grey eyes. At the moment, his eyes are tightly shut to keep from spilling over, but, despite his best efforts, trails of tears are leaking from the corners of his eyes, making tracks down his cheeks. His hands are tightly fisted around the chains supporting the swing.

"Can't make me. Can't make me. Can't make me," he chants raggedly through gritted teeth.

The words spill faster and faster from his mouth as the tears spill faster and faster from his eyes and all of a sudden he's going higher and higher and faster and faster as his legs desperately beat the air, pumping powerfully to propel the swing as if he could take off and just go _up_, and his eyes are open, tears streaming freely down his face, and he shouts out loud to the night-dark world, "THEY CAN'T MAKE ME!"

And then it's as if all the air has gone out of his lungs. His legs stop moving as he deflates, looking startled and just the tinniest bit afraid. His eyes dry as the last drops move across his cheeks and then the cool air sucks even that little bit of moisture from his skin.

The swing slows down until it is barely moving, merely swaying in place. He sits, breathing ragged, staring at nothing. Gradually, his pulse returns to normal. Grey eyes focus on the full moon and it soothes him. A tiny bubble of hope takes root in his chest at the sight of the white orb.

He slides off the swing and lets his feet carry him to Number 12, Grimmauld Place. He stands outside for a long moment, looking at the house, mouth a tight line. Then his shoulders square slightly and he moves closer.

He sneaks into the house, then through it to his bedroom, moving as quietly as he can manage to keep from waking any of the inhabitants. He shuts his room's door slowly to keep it from banging, holding it carefully until he hears the _snick_ of the lock.

He sheds the clothes he wears, letting them fall rustling to the floor, and pulls on a pair of soft pajama bottoms. He casts a glance around the room as he turns down the covers on his bed. His gaze lands on his cast-off clothing and his mouth thins into a line again. Silently, he crosses to the garments on the ground, picks them up, shakes them out, and hangs them over the back of a chair. He returns to his bed and slides between the sheets.

The dark-haired head hits the pillow and grey eyes close.

The boy sleeps. He dreams.

_Everything appears in shades of grey. The boy is no longer a boy, but a dog, large and black._

_A castle rises in the background. A full moon peers down through the branches of dark trees that might be a grove, or perhaps part of a forest._

_Under the branches of a large, sprawling oak the dog-who-was-a-boy paces._

_A tall stag watches him with liquid eyes. Perched between the stag's antlers is a rather fat rat, bald tail switching back and forth as its nose twitches._

_The boy-who-is-now-a-dog wonders if it is usual for rodents to sit on the heads of deer. It seems rather curious to him, but only in the passing way of such dreamlike curiosities._

_Behind the dog-who-was-a-boy there is a growl. He does not hear it, for there is no sound, not even the sound of the wind that is riffling through the leaves of the oak tree just overhead, but he feels it. The growl is in the air, and echoed in his bones, his very blood._

_The boy-who-is-now-a-dog turns towards the silent growl. Crouched low in the grass is another dog – no, not a dog, a wolf, a wolf with a tufted tail and funny eyes._

_The dog-who-was-a-boy knows what the growl means, and he approaches the wolf, slowly, slowly, mustn't spook him. When he is close, he crouches down and touches the strangely-shaped snout with the tip of his own nose._

_The wolf gives another silent-growl, but it means something different this time. The dog-who-was-a-boy sticks out his long pink tongue and swipes it across the wolf's snout._

_The wolf huffs – as silently as he growls – and flops over onto his side, curling against the body of the dog-who-was-a-boy._

_For some reason this is comforting, and there is a wonderful, soothing heat encircling the two furry canine bodies. The dog-who-was-a-boy shifts even closer and tucks his nose under that of his lupine companion._

This is happiness,_ he thinks. It is a simple thought, whether because he is dreaming or because he is a dog, he doesn't know, but it doesn't matter. Wherever the thought, in all its simplicity, comes from, he knows it is the truth. This is comfort, this is being wanted, being needed, being loved. This is happiness._

The boy is awake, and a boy once more. Sunlight is shining into his room and everything is in color. Sounds echo through the house, voices and the distant clank and clatter of a working kitchen.

He can't remember anything of his dreams, but the bubble of hope in his chest seems to have grown some overnight.

He rises, dresses, and opens his door to go in search of breakfast.

The hinges squeak faintly, but he is not paying attention. On the floor just in front of his feet is an envelope made of yellowish parchment, addressed to _Mr. S. Black_ in emerald-green ink.

He picks up the letter with trembling hands. He knows what this is, but hardly dares believe it's real.

He turns it over and sees the purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms with four animals and a large letter 'H'. He touches each animal in turn with a gentle finger, lingering last on the lion, almost caressing it. It's real.

He remembers fur, and comfort, and happiness.

The bubble of hope expands, filling him. His grey eyes shine in the early-morning light and for the first time in his memory, he feels his lips curve upwards in a smile.

He's free.

**END**

**A/N:** I'M ALIVE! Just a little something to tide people over, since I'm so horribly behind in updating my full-length fics. Lots going on, work, bartending, car accidents. That sort of thing. Anyway, this fic was inspired by the song of the same name (the Quindon Tarver recording from Baz Luhrmann's _Romeo and Juliet_, not the Prince recording). Again, this isn't what I usually write, but I've been in a weird writing place lately, when I can write at all. Please review and let me know what you think!


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